


Several Notions season 4

by hophophop



Series: Several Notions [5]
Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-10 19:56:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5598820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hophophop/pseuds/hophophop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>"I’m about to disabuse you of several notions, so please: listen very carefully.”</em>
</p><p>ficlets, drabbles, and prompt fills originally posted on tumblr or elsewhere over the course of season four.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Glamorous Life of a Detective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Remind me again what cloistered shriveled things our lives are."_
> 
> This is a scene from a fic that never fully materialized, and I haven't found another place to use it. I like the dynamic too much to let it go, so I [posted it to the Watson's Woes Advent fest](http://watsons-woes.livejournal.com/1472799.html).

"Watson," Sherlock hissed into the middle of her back, "I'm not one to advocate caution over curiosity, but a little research might have been in order." 

She jabbed back at him with her elbow, and he tightened his hold on her upper arms, almost toppling both of them backwards down the narrow pitch-dark stairwell, if not for her death-grip on the railing. 

"Nice try, but that was your job." She resumed climbing, wiping sweat out of her eyes with the back of the hand holding her shoes. The heels were too loud, but now she worried about slipping in her socks on the worn-smooth wood. "You said no one would be home this week. What kind of research was that?" 

"My informant said her parents were forcing her to go on a family excursion that would take, and I quote, 'forever, like a month or something.' How was I know know she was being hyperbolic?" 

"Seriously? Next time your source is Tumblr posts from a disgruntled teenager, get a second opinion." 

He heaved a sigh and a long in-breath. "The second opinion I just now consulted tells me they're serving tea in the parlour and preparing a five-course dinner for this evening." He sniffed again. "The cook is overfond of fennel. But that's enough bustle upstairs and down to cover our exit." 

Thirty minutes later they crunched along the gravel path for authorized visitors to the estate, each of them favoring a leg. The view west toward the Palisades was stunning, but with sunset approaching, the breeze across the Hudson was no longer pleasantly bracing but downright cold after the overheated interior stairwell where they'd spent the afternoon hoping for an opportunity to examine the private collection. 

"The light's almost gone, Watson, won't take a moment..." She glanced back when he spoke and immediately sped up with a more pronounced limp. 

"No, we're not going to stop so you can drop your pants and document the swelling," she called over her shoulder. "If it's so important I'll be very glad to assist you falling down _our_ stairs and landing on your other knee when we get home." 

"It's almost impossible to recreate field conditions in the lab," he grumbled, shifting his hands away from his belt. "In recompense you could at least let me see—" 

"I'm not showing you the ginormous bruise on my butt, here or anywhere. If you want to research something, figure out how long until we're at the car and where the closest coffee is after that. Otherwise, keep your observations to yourself." His muttering subsided behind her, and she concentrated on not jarring her hip with each step. 

They reached the car before he spoke again, eyes on his phone. "One mile back the way we came, two rights, and the siren's placard should be visible 200 meters on the left. The nearest independent purveyor is three times as far, but they serve a full menu." Someone's stomach growled. 

"Dinner it is. You're navigating." Watson dug her keys out of her coat pocket. "And paying." Sherlock limited his response to a dry quirk of his brow. It took them both a little longer than usual to get settled in their seats thanks to their disgruntled joints. Sherlock hissed when his knee hit the underside of the dash. Watson glanced over briefly and turned the ignition. "Let's hope they don't mind giving you a bowl of ice for that." Her stomach growled again as she pulled out into the street. 

"Take the second left," Sherlock said. "I just hope they don't use too much fennel."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> some notfic for International Fanworks Day: [What does your favorite character—or your favorite pairing—get fannish over?](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/4770)
> 
> [originally on tumblr](https://amindamazed.tumblr.com/post/139396889073)

Sherlock’s got a thousand and one interests, but I don’t get a sense he has many favorites. Always a dozen projects in play, forever open to new discoveries. Still, I don’t know that I’d call him a fan of anything. Well, no, there was a dancer once. A ballerina involved in a case we had. He’d seen her perform before and clearly admired her work. He was actually a little starstruck with her at first. That wore off… If I had to pick something, I guess bees. Bees and the scientific method. Oh! I forgot conspiracy theorists. He loves them.

Although she affects disinterest or disgust on occasion, I’ve always found Watson ready to engage with almost any topic or assignment brought to her. She’s incredibly task-oriented, however; I rarely find her researching something unrelated to the work at hand. If a case requires new lines of inquiry, she’s eager to delve deep, but without that spark of immediate utility, she may balk. Of course she has amusements to ~~waste~~ occupy her free time: televised sporting events and her apparent lifelong obsession with the American Mafia, whether history or fantasy, foremost among them. And sleep. Watson does enjoy her sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I was testing whether Ms. Morena could have fashioned a suitable lock pick from the tools at her disposal.”_
> 
> [originally on tumblr](https://amindamazed.tumblr.com/post/142372320483), written in response to the preview for 4x19 in which Sherlock had rigged a headlamp out of Watson's bra.

“Here you go.” The copier paper box Watson dropped on the kitchen table narrowly missed Holmes’ nose as he looked up, and he jerked back, blinking and frowning.

“Those are yours. so you better stay out of mine from now on.” She folded her arms and stared at him, nodding toward the box impatiently after a few seconds.

He leaned toward it, but all he could smell was cardboard, a bit of must, and industrial laundry detergent, similar to the odor that sometimes lingered on Watson’s coat after she’d spent some hours at the shelter. Ah. That explained the source, but not the contents of the box.

“It’s not a problem for folks to donate them used, but sometimes they come ripped or don’t survive the washing machine. Considering you always end up taking mine apart anyway, I figured that wouldn’t be an issue for you.” Now that was a curious clue, and focused his deduction considerably. There were lamentably few items she claimed as “mine” in the Brownstone.

“Plus this way you get a lot more variety than I care to provide. Not that I cared to provide any for you, ever. But now I have, so don’t say I never got you anything.”

“I would never, Watson,” he said, removing the top to reveal a panoply of battered bras.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You know me, Watson. Joke machine.”_
> 
> [originally on tumblr](https://amindamazed.tumblr.com/post/144482675343), written in response to the first round of photos showing JLM's bleached hair for the Trainspotting sequel.

There he was, finally. She’d hoped to catch him when he left the meeting, but everything ran late in this weather. Joan spotted Sherlock walking half a block ahead of her, his familiar shape and gait as good as a beacon even with his back to her. She couldn’t claim this as detecting, really; she’d always found it easy to identify people she knew like that. There was nothing distinguishing about his clothing — intentional, she knew; no distinctive patches on anything he’d wear, just a lapel pin, not that she would have spotted that from her vantage point even if he’d been wearing that coat, anyway. Still, she knew it was him, from the swing of his arm and the set of his back.

He had his sweatshirt hood pulled up against the drizzle, but the rain had stopped, and she knew he’d be likely to push it back any minute now. As much as the exuberant sights and sounds of the city pained him at times, he found it more distracting to have his senses muffled. She smiled to herself when his hand went up just as she had the thought and then frowned and almost stopped abruptly in surprise, mumbling “Sorry” to the pedestrian behind her.

Up ahead, the man she’d been certain was Sherlock glowed like a light bulb against the dark palette of late afternoon rain-wet sidewalk and office-worker trench coats, white blond hair flaring like a lit match. She squinted, trying to adjust her focus as if that would shift the color. Instead she just noticed that the man’s hairstyle was a fresh cut of the same hack job Sherlock had been dallying with on and off the past few years (she was not a fan, but it was his head, and she certainly didn’t want to invite any reciprocal remarks).

The sweatshirt was the same color as the one he usually wore, as were the man’s pants, but navy blue fleece and brown chinos were hardly unique choices. She couldn’t see his shoes from this angle, but, aside from his hair, she would have sworn it was Sherlock. His stride, his half-fisted hands, his cadence; those were as unique as fingerprints. She shook her head. _Occam’s razor, Watson_ , she heard his voice in her head. _Trust your instincts._ What was more likely? That she was wrong about recognizing him or that he would be eccentric in some new way she hadn’t yet witnessed. Well, when she put it like that… She quickened her step to close the distance between them.

If his father hadn’t just left the city, she could easily imagine it a stunt intended to drive him up the wall, but there wasn’t anyone else she thought he’d go so such lengths to shock. Certainly not her. The obvious answer was for a case, but if so it had to be a pretty new one. She dug out her phone in case she’d missed a text, but there was nothing. Could it be a wig? Maybe… Still, the question remained either way. Why?

Oh, of course.

His _Frozen_ video had gone viral but otherwise most of the indignities Everyone demanded were ephemeral acts, with effects lasting a few hours or days at the most. Obviously he could dye his hair back or shave it all off but presumably they must have offered particularly valuable and elusive data this time to exact a commitment of weeks. Probably not related to a current case, but perhaps information related to one of Moriarty’s long cons. Or perhaps he only counted the hours it took to transform his head as payment, not the time it would remain transformed. Not that he’d consider such alteration as any sort of meaningful transformation. It was going to be disruptive though, and he had to know that. So he must have decided it was worth it.

She realized he was still half a block ahead of her despite her change of pace: He knew she was following and changed his stride accordingly, to maintain their distance. If he didn’t want her to catch up, he was either leading her somewhere or planning an ambush. The light changed before she could cross and gave her a minute to consider her options. Play along and let him have his game? Beat him at it? Or opt out and wait for him to track her down instead. She checked her watch, then the cross-street, and finally her phone. She had no interest in taking drastic measures, but that was hardly her only option. She thought she’d remembered a place near here, from years ago when Emily threw a Halloween party and insisted she splurge on a real costume. They had an excellent wig selection back then. She turned east with the stragglers crossing just ahead of traffic. Maybe they’d have something in a burgundy red, to match her comfy sweater.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bulletproofbell posted [the prompt: "what's joan watson doing right now as you read this?"](http://bulletproofbell.tumblr.com/post/150480640404)
> 
> [originally on tumblr](https://amindamazed.tumblr.com/post/150490226918)

Joan is looking at her watch for the umpteenth time because her mother is now 20 minutes late, but that could just be traffic even if the restaurant is just two blocks from the train station, and if Joan calls she’ll know Joan was worried and be all the more defensive. Just then the restaurant door jingles and Mary comes in, Sherlock holding the door open behind her.

“As I suspected,” he says to Mary, waving his arm in her direction with a flourish as if he were responsible for Joan being here. Before Joan can say anything, Sherlock settles Mary into her chair and steps away to pull a third chair over for himself. He stands behind it for a moment, looking down at her. “Really, Watson,” he says in a tone of mock rebuke at odds with the gentle tilt of his head, “If you didn’t want the responsibility of making breakfast for your mother, you shouldn’t have invited her to our home in the first place.”

“Sorry for the mix-up, Mom,” she manages, and then Sherlock launches into his review of the cook’s short-comings and makes Mary laugh disapprovingly and correct his opinions while she pulls herself together behind her menu.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> another fill for bulletproofbell's prompt: ["what's joan watson doing right now as you read this?"](http://bulletproofbell.tumblr.com/post/150480640404)
> 
> [originally posted on tumblr 18sep2016](https://amindamazed.tumblr.com/post/150617078463)

Joan is hanging up her laundry to dry because Sherlock keeps tinkering with the fuse box and fried the dryer’s motor last month. He claims it was the dryer’s fault and she doesn’t really care except she needs to plan a little further in advance now to have clean clothes ready to wear. It’s a lot easier to do the right thing for the environment and the electric bill and the longevity of her clothing when the appliance doesn’t actually work. The convenience of a working dryer was just, well, too convenient to pass up. 

(Sherlock alternates between strewing his wet clothes all over his room, lugging them up to the roof where he’s set up a proper clothesline, or some other set of options she doesn’t want to know about after that time he wouldn’t stop fidgeting in a taxi, and when she asked him what the problem was, he made reference to “damp drawers.”) 

Joan uses the roof clothesline for sheets and towels and has a large folding rack in her room. She could probably string up a clothesline in her room, too; it’s big enough. But there’s no need. She’s had the rack since her second apartment after med school, which didn’t have a laundry room. She found it on the street, and after she sanded it down and let her roommate douse the thing with hydrogen peroxide (Vita had a thing for hydrogen peroxide), it had accompanied her back and forth across New York City for twenty years. She shakes her head, pausing with a t-shirt hem held in both hands. Twenty years! Jeez. She should send it to college. 

“What’s the oldest thing you have that you still use?” she asks Sherlock that night, when she’s standing undecided in front of the open refrigerator using up all the electricity she’d saved by not using the dryer. 

He give her a quizzical look, glancing at the contents of the fridge. The oldest thing in there is a jar of Dijon mustard she bought shortly after she moved back. 

“No, I mean personal belongings. Your own stuff.” She looks across the kitchen into his room and spots the case on the low table. “Your violin?” 

He follows her gaze with an appraising nod but shifts to eye the bricked-up fireplace. “The violin’s about 150 years old, but supposedly my mother’s ring was once a point of international contention in the Napoleonic Wars.” Joan hmms appreciatively, but Sherlock slumps a bit with dejected sigh. “I should probably get a second opinion on that; my governess was overly fond of the Regency romance genre. I suspect her history lessons relied a bit too much on that source material.” 

“Ah well.” Joan turns back to the fridge. “Doesn’t mean it’s not true,” she says, her voice muffled as she reaches way in to pull out the mustard. She waves it at him with a dramatic flourish. “I think it’s time to have another go at the French.”


End file.
